Sam said, “But why would she want to exhibit our paintings?”
“Your paintings are accomplished, particularly the later ones, and they will sell quickly, I am sure. The sales would give you both a nest egg for New York. Hetty Sloan is a dedicated traditionalist, but also down deep a true English shop-keeper and she likes anything so long as it sells. Then, you won’t need to wait tables in Tribeca or work in gallery back rooms to make ends meet.”
“I don’t think it’s as simple as that, Carrie,” Neil said.
“Of course, it is.”
Sam said, “I wonder about Hetty’s gallery, though. She specializes in nineteenth century work. Big bouquets and bowls of fruit. Thoroughbred horses in front of country houses. Long-toothed women in period dress, colors too strong for their English complexions. I swear on her sign it says right under her name: Paintings of the Deceased British Academicians from the nineteenth century.”
“That’s almost right,” Carrie said. “But your paintings of the South of France will give her a new look, something to attract the old pussies of both genders who stay at Brown’s Hotel. Contemporary landscapes are not that far afield. I know it will work. I am sure she will agree.”
“They are good, aren’t they,” Sam asked, more of a statement than a question.
“Absolutely. Let me call her tonight.”
Neil said, “It’s okay by me. Let’s do it.”
“Splendid. You won’t regret it,” she said.
He continued, “I do have something else to bring up to the two of you, as well. Since we are in fact done with our project and the summer isn’t over yet, why don’t we spend a few weeks somewhere on the coast? Sam can drive us in your car.”
“Our very own water nymph. Always wanting to go to the seashore,” Carrie said.
“It’s true, I confess. No summer seems right without a dip into the sea. The Mediterranean holds a fascination for me, its the very water that Odysseus, Tiberius and Madame Matisse all swam about in, if not together.”
Sam said, “Our ship home from Genoa isn’t until September so I’ll say yes to both propositions. It will have to be a very cheap place as I have only three hundred or so left. Do you think Hetty could send us a small advance?”
Carrie said, “Don’t push it, Sam. I’ll call her tonight.”
Nicole found them in the wine bar. She pulled up an extra chair, and they started to pour her a glass of wine. She put her hand over the glass. “I had a good morning in Perget. My old friend there has been raiding his family chateau again, his mother away in Paris for a month. Four eighteenth century rush seated chairs and a Regénce bureau plat. I’m starved for lunch. Allons.”
She led them next door to the café and expertly secured a table under the awning against the front wall, cool but fully open to street-side. The waiter was instantly there, sensing the no-nonsense power that Nicole exuded in public. She ordered, without consulting the other three, four of the daily special dejeuners for the all of them, raising her eyebrows for tacit approval. If Neil and Sam gave in, it was only on the surface, for a moment’s peaceful retreat.
Nicole was a dark-haired version of Carrie, slim and casually dressed in jeans, a black silk blouse and large straw hat. She was a few years older than Carrie, but her youthful demeanor gave her an air of a school-mate.
Carrie said, “We’ve much to celebrate. Neil and Sam’s sixty paintings are completed. An exhibit in London arranged, well, almost arranged. And we have just come up with a trip to the Riviera for a couple of weeks of sea-water. Will you join us for some swimming and sunning, Nicole?”
“No, no. It’s much too busy now in Gordes. Maybe in October.”
Sam said, “But you won’t have our glorious company in October, Nicole. Handsome American men with stunning bodies frolicking in the waves. It will make you insane with desire.”
“Ah, yes. But imagination must suffice.”
Carrie asked, “Where should we stay, Nicole? August will be crowded I know, and we are definitely on a budget.”
“I may have just the thing. My uncle in his will left me his summer house in Cabasson-sur-Mer. Not the Riviera, closer to Marseilles. It’s very simple fisherman’s house, but on the edge of town. Applewood tables, chairs that lean, dishes that don’t match. The Paris family that always rents it for August has cancelled. Most annoying. Perhaps you would like to rent it? It’s available starting tomorrow.”
“How much for two whole weeks?” Sam said.
“Five thousand francs.”
“Ouch. I was hoping for something around eight hundred francs.”
Nicole’s expression indicated her displeasure. “It is High Season for rents and my uncle did not leave it to me just for me to give it away. It is a big part of my annual income. I am not a charitable association.” Despite her youthful and modern demeanor, underneath Nicole was truly French.
Neil said, “Cool down, I guess we’ll look farther down the coast. Maybe that’s what the Paris family did, too.”
Nicole scowled at him. She said, “You make fun, but rents are what feed me. I have no talents like all of you. I must use what my family gives me.”
Carrie said, “I have an idea. Another dazzler.” She paused to get their attention. “What if Nicole took a painting in trade from each of you for three weeks rent on her uncle’s house? She just yesterday said how she admired the work of yours she had seen and both of you want proper remuneration for your talent.”
She turned to Nicole and said, “There are plans for an exhibit of these paintings in London, at a gallery just across from Brown’s Hotel. I am sure their prices will go up handsomely and easily make up your loss of rent.” Carrie, as well as Nicole, had some merchant genes in her make-up that popped into existence at surprising times. Buying at wholesale was part of the gene pool.
“Her choice of paintings?” Sam asked.
“My choice, of course,” Nicole said, smiling.
“No, my choice,” Carrie said.
Nicole took a drink of water and considered it. Neil thought he could almost hear gears moving around in her head; maybe she was a French cyborg, a mobile adding machine made in a secret factory on the coast. Not looking directly at them, she finally said, “D’accord.”
Sam watched Neil’s face for approval. They all nodded agreement and clinked wine-glasses. The meal proceeded without further mention of rentals or paintings. Carrie paid the bill for all of them and they walked away in the direction of their cars.
Nicole said, “Oh, Neil, I almost forgot. Your mother called from the States this morning at the Auberge. She could not get past the public telephone in the bar at the Metropole, even though she has very good French.”
“She went to school in Switzerland as a girl. Henri at the bar has his strict orders from Madame. No telephone for the room renters. What did my mother want?”
“You must call her immediately. Not life or death, but trés important, she said.”
Neil knew that his mother missed talking to him, sharing family news and hearing about his adventures. She had called several times a week during his years in London, involving him in every family crisis, however small. The barrier of the local phone at the Metropole was thwarting her connection with her favorite offspring. At least, so far.
“Margaret can wait until